The Hatter's Clock Shop
by ALady'sImagination
Summary: Was Wonderland ever real, or was it all Alice's head? Nobody knows. But what if it was neither. What if Wonderland came from somebody else's head? Somebody a little more...mad. This started as a short story but it felt a little rushed...so I've decided to write it properly and give it some better attention. Hope you enjoy! xox


There is an old street in London, England. Cobbled, just like the rest, with neat lines of street lanterns, just like any other. It is lined with the same trees as all the other streets; trees that shed golden and red kisses in the autumn sun. In this street, however, there is a shop. The shop sits on the corner and an old wooden sign hangs over its polished door.

_'12 and Ticking' _

A clock shop.

If you were to peer in through the window of this clock shop, you would see an unusual man. He often wore a brightly coloured waistcoat, favourably red or purple. If ever he removed his top hat, you would see that his hair was dark and always slightly un-kept; he often ran his lined hands warily through it when a particular clock was frustrating him. He wore brown trousers and black leather shoes, but most importantly he wore a permanent smile. The smile was the sort that creased the corners of his dark, green eyes, and erased even the deepest lines from his middle-aged face. Visitors often saw this smile when they came in their favourable numbers to marvel at his extraordinary clocks, which came in all sorts of forms. He made small, intricate golden pocket watches with the most delicate set of hands and numbers, on the thinnest chains imaginable; to huge, wooden grandfather clocks, carved and painted in great detail, with a booming chime loud enough to hear a whole house away.

He worked for hours here; carving and painting and tinkering until his clocks cried four evening chimes in unison; chimes that announced the daily arrival of a 7 year old girl on her way home from the local school. She arrived this autumn day exactly on time, just as the clock maker expected her to.

"Papa!" cheered delightfully, running across the wood-paned floors to the open arms of the clock-maker. He reserved a special smile for his daughter, a huge beaming grin that filled the room with warmth and infectiously swept to his child, who giggled and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. The proud clock-maker then stepped back from his daughter, crouched to her height, and held her small hands in his.

"Look at you." He smiled. "You grow older and more beautiful every time I see you."

"Papa!" She grumbled happily. "I haven't changed a bit since yesterday."

"Oh but of course you have." He grinned. "You have much more of a muchness about you today then the muchness you had much of yesterday."

"You are mad, papa." She laughed.

"All the best people are, my child."

The pair then walked hand in hand toward home; their footsteps echoing quietly on the cobbled street;just two misty silhouettes in the golden sun. The walk was long, but neither cared – they would have plenty to discuss. The girl told her father of the funniest boys and the silliest girls and of her favorite imaginary game that day (something about a magical land with talking creatures); while her father would tell her of the most expensive clock sold, and the fussiest old man with the most specific taste in pocket watches.

"He sounds like the white rabbit." His daughter considered carefully. "He cares very much for his pocket watch."

"Well then of course, this can be no coincidence." Her father considered, equally carefully. "He must be the very same person. In fact, he did look rather rabbit like. He twitched his nose an awful lot." The clock maker winked at his daughter, who laughed again. The laughter continued all the way to the red door of number 9 Wondarl End.

"Wonderland!" The girl cried happily. The clock maker laughed fondly,

"Where else?" He grinned.

"That's what my magic world is called."

They placed their coats on the hooks by the door just as the clock struck five.

"Papa, your hat!" His daughter giggled.

"Of course! A man must always remove his hat in the presence of a lady!" He swept his hat off and bowed low to his daughter.

"Papa!" She giggled again.

"Yes papa, best hurry, you're just in time for tea!" A kind voice agreed from the kitchen doorway. A young woman stood there with her arms folded, a small smile playing on her lips.

"TEA!" The pair yelled in unison.

"My chair's the one on the very end!" The clock maker grinned, beginning a familiar game with his daughter.

"Not if I get there first!" She grinned back, and both ran.

"Ha!" He yelled victoriously. The girl laughed and sat down at the neighboring chair; and this is where the game really began.

"I've changed my mind." The clock maker announced. "I want that chair." He pointed at his daughters chair.

"This is my seat." She replied, giggling.

"MOVE DOWN!" He laughed, seizing his daughter by the waist and hauling her from the chair. He planted her on the opposite seat. He wife appeared then, placing the food before her breathless family, before seating herself down next to her husband.

"TEA, TEA TEA! MOVE DOWN, MOVE DOWN, MOVED DOWN!" The clock maker yelled again, leaping to his feel.

"Oh really-" his wife started crossly, but she was interrupted by:

"Move down!" Her daughter yelled, leaping to her feet also. The clock maker and his girl seized an arm each of the mother's, towing her quickly around the table. Her kind face cracked into a smile and she allowed herself to be placed in the clock maker's original seat at the head of the table.

"Can we eat now please?" She asked. Her smile was fond and her nature was good; but the game was over for tonight. 5 o clock turned to 6 o clock, and as it did, the clock maker rose from his chair and retired to his office. It was a small room that simply contained a desk, a chair and a lamp. On the desk were rolls of paper and scattered piles of pencils and rulers and rubbers. The papers held drawings of future clocks, all marked with measurements and notes. Carving designs were hidden among them. The clock maker spent a lot of hours here, carefully sketching and planning; until he heard the faint patter of 7 year old feet on the stairs, and even after that, until he heard the louder patter of his wife's feet. These feet sometimes paused at his office door, accompanied by a whispered 'goodnight'. But more often than not, they passed without stopping, and the clock maker would work undisturbed until hours after the house itself was asleep.


End file.
